


when she needs him

by junes_discotheque



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Choking, Collars, Dom/sub, F/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Power Dynamics, Predicament Bondage, Safewords, Subspace, service topping, this is probably much less graphic than these tags suggest tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22950085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: Haunted by her decision to save Shelley at the cost of the future, the Doctor stops in on an old friend, and makes a request.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Comments: 7
Kudos: 81





	when she needs him

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between "The Haunting of Villa Diodati" and "Ascension of the Cybermen". Spoilers for the former; possible spoilers for the latter? Got this out before the finale heyyy.

They take a break before going to save the future.

Time is a tricky thing; it is true that the sooner they go after the Lone Cyberman the better, but events are in flux and in the grand scheme, she can spare twenty-four hours to let her friends see their families.

(And if they decide to stay behind - well, all the better.)

It also gives her the chance to do something she should have done _weeks_ ago. Now - with everything that’s happened - she fears it is far too late. Still, she goes.

What choice does she have?

*

The bar isn’t one of Jack’s preferred spots - it’s on a space station on the wrong end of the galaxy, for one, and for another, it’s crawling with the kind of job offers Jack is very pointedly not taking. Which makes him stand out, just a little.

Still. It serves alcohol, and the station itself isn’t the worst option as far as lying low goes. He’s only just escaped capture for his little joyride, after all. 

He orders another drink, tilts his head back, and hopes he overhears someone wanting to hire for a job that’s closer to ‘morally dubious’ than ‘outright evil’. Not that he’s been successful in finding employment so far, but…

A beeping interrupts his thoughts, and it takes a moment for him to realize it’s coming from himself. From his own vortex manipulator.

He’s staring at it, trying to figure out what to do, when he hears his own name in a voice both unfamiliar and achingly recognizable.

“ _Jack!_ ”

He spins around in an instant. He’s never seen this version, but he _knows,_ immediately. Who else could it be? Who else could shove through a crowd on the worst space station in the sector like it’s nothing, grin at him with too many teeth and too much pain, and tilt the entire universe on its axis?

“Doctor,” Jack says.

He’d thought he’d been prepared for the change, but seeing the Doctor standing here is - honestly a shock. He grabs at his drink without looking and takes a long gulp while the Doctor watches him with trepidation.

“Gotta say, I _like_ this look on you,” he says, with a wink. It isn’t a lie; she’s stunning, but Jack can’t imagine a world in which he _wouldn’t_ find the Doctor attractive.

Her mouth twists. “Don’t start,” she scolds, though she sounds pleased. Jack can’t help grinning.

“So. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you again?” he asks. In an instant, the half-smile drops off the Doctor’s face, and is replaced a moment later by a soft, utterly fake smile.

“Oh, you know…” she says, shrugging. Her arm flails around and nearly clips the spiked armour of a nearby mercenary. “I’ve just dropped the team off for a quick visit home. We had _some_ adventure, our last time out. Met Mary Shelley. And Lord Byron. Do you know, he fancied me?”

“Trying to make me jealous?” Jack asks, crossing his arms. “Or just stalling?”

The Doctor frowns. “Neither? Er. Oh, and - there was -” She seems to fold in on herself. “... cyberman,” she mumbles.

“What?”

She glares at him. “The Lone Cyberman. I - I didn’t have a _choice_ , Jack. You said _at any cost,_ but -”

 _Ah._ He understands, now, why she’s here. The cost had been too high, and she’d been forced to make a choice. Jack can’t entirely blame her. He’d been desperate, when he was trying to get the message to her, and _scared_ \- the things he’d seen - but. He’d known, too, that the choice might not be a choice at all.

“You disobeyed,” Jack says, carefully. That phrasing has typically worked better on him than on her, but each new regeneration has its preferences. Her breath hitches a little; he’s close, but not quite - “You tried to handle it alone, and failed.”

 _That_ gets a shudder, and she ducks her head, blonde hair falling over her face. He lifts his glass and takes another drink.

“Ask.”

She glances up at him from behind the curtain of hair. “Here?”

 _Yes,_ he thinks at her, but stays silent as she battles with herself. She can refuse; negotiation with them has always been more of an on-the-fly sort of thing and Jack’s not going to force her unless she directs him to do so. And it’s hardly like she can use the bystanders as a shield. It’ll be little more than a curiosity for them, if they even care to look.

With a frustrated grunt, the Doctor crashes down to the grimy floor and yanks Jack’s hand towards herself, pressing her forehead to the back of his wrist. “Captain,” she bites out. “Help me.”

Well. How could he possibly refuse? “Did you bring it?”

The Doctor drops his hand and digs around in the pockets of her pale lilac coat. “In here somewhere,” she mutters to herself. Jack waits, patiently, and takes another sip from his glass. 

Finally, with a cry of victory, she’s shoving a strip of worn brown leather at him. He takes it and turns it over, examining it - the frayed stitching, the tarnished buckle, the creases next to the two most frequently-used holes. He notices, too, that three new holes have been punched, messily, by hand, and he realizes she must have done that herself - it had been made for a much different Doctor, after all, and wouldn’t have fit her as it was. He’s warmed by the image it creates: the Doctor measuring out where to place the extra holes to fit around her new neck, so that she wouldn't have to give it up.

“Thank you,” Jack says, softly. She bows her head, gathering her blonde hair into a fist away from her neck, and he reaches down to fasten the collar.

“Captain,” she says when it’s done. Her voice is hazy and reverent. Jack touches the D-ring at her throat, fingering the small brass tag with his own name inscribed in circular Gallifreyan. He can read the language, a little, though he’s fairly sure that’s just the residual psychic link to the TARDIS helping him out. His own collar has a tag with the Doctor’s name - their _real_ name - and he’s never been able to decipher it.

Jack finishes his drink and slides off the barstool, offering her a hand up. She takes it and he pulls her in so that their bodies are flush. “Stay close,” he says. “This isn’t the place you want to be alone.”

“I parked the TARDIS in a storage closet down the hall,” she says. “Unless you have a room here you’d prefer -”

“No,” Jack says. He _does_ have a room on the station, with a bed and a table, but it’s hardly comfortable and he distrusts the station command enough that he doesn’t keep any belongings there. (Or anywhere. He travels light; only what fits in his pockets, these days.)

The Doctor nods, and moves his hand to the back of her neck. He slips his middle finger through the ring in her collar, tosses a few credits on the bar, and lets her lead the way through the crowd and out into the corridor. He keeps a vague awareness of the other patrons - some glance their way with mild curiosity but most leave them alone - and directs the rest of his attention to the Doctor. There’s a tension in the lines of her body, in the way she holds her shoulders and her arms, that only grows whenever anyone comes particularly close to her. He’s used to the Doctor refusing to relax, but this - it’s something else entirely.

Priority one, getting back to the TARDIS, goes without incident, for which Jack is impossibly grateful. Given their combined track records for chaos and foiled plans, it’s a small miracle that they haven’t been dragged into a crisis in the two and a quarter minutes it’s taken to reach the familiar blue box.

He lets go of her collar once they’re inside, and she rushes over to the console, flipping switches and pulling levers until the engines groan to life and the unmistakable grinding sound of the dematerialization fills the room. Jack takes the moment to examine the new interior. A warm golden glow fills the room, reflecting off the hexagonal paneling; an organic feel that’s not too dissimilar from his first TARDIS. It seems to suit her; though he’s barely just met this incarnation, he knows when the Doctor is at peace. 

(She’s not quite there yet, of course, but Jack thinks he can change that. That’s why they’re both here, anyway; that’s why she came to him. He takes the responsibility seriously.)

“There,” the Doctor says, pressing a couple more buttons and stepping away. “We’re parked in the Vortex.”

“Good.” Jack wanders along the perimeter. “I don’t suppose my old room is still around here somewhere? Or if you’d prefer to do this -”

“Of course!” she exclaims, and starts running up the stairs. “It’s down here, right where we left it. The TARDIS keeps them all, you know, tucks them away. Everyone who’s ever - Well. You never know, right?”

Jack frowns at her back and follows. “Sure,” he says, though he’s not sure what to make of the revelation. The Doctor had kept his room around for awhile, but it’s been so long, he’d kind of expected it’d be repurposed by now. That the Doctor keeps _everyone_ ’s room, no matter how long ago they left the Doctor (or the Doctor left them) or the unlikelihood they’d come back on board is - 

He’d say it’s a kind, sentimental idea, but he suspects there’s more to it than that.

She leads him through the TARDIS, down two more flights of stairs, and finally comes to a stop in front of a deep, burgundy door. His name, again, in Gallifreyan, painted in gold. The Doctor runs her fingers over the interlocking circles.

“Doctor?”

“When we step inside,” she says, haltingly. She reaches up to her own neck and rubs her thumb over the leather. “I - I want to. Obey. Atone. But. This body - I don’t think it likes being touched very much.” 

He sighs. She’s forced the confession out, at one of the last possible moments, which doesn’t quite bode well for getting her to be open about anything else. “Okay,” he says. “Anything else?”

The Doctor gets an odd, pained look on her face. There’s a prominent wrinkle between her eyes. Jack wants to rub it away, but she’d just said about touching, so he keeps his hands to himself.

“No,” she says, at length. A lie, clearly, but Jack doesn’t argue. He can work with a lie: forcing difficult truths out of stubborn Time Lords is something of his specialty.

Jack pushes the door open and follows her in. 

His room is unchanged from the last time he was here - by his count, more than a hundred years ago. By hers, who knows? But it’s all the same, from the deep burgundy quilt on the bed to the pinewood vanity in the corner to the hard points in the ceiling. He crosses over to the vanity and opens the bottom drawer.

No change here, either. All his equipment, exactly as he left it. 

“Take your clothes off,” Jack says, and then, quickly, “and fold them on the bed. _Neatly_.” 

The Doctor frowns at him but doesn’t say a word, just removes her coat and folds it, as instructed, on the bed. He keeps a watch on her out of the corner of his eye as he rummages through the drawer: she strips perfunctorily, awkwardly, and he can tell she’s not exactly _thrilled_ to be exposing herself. He wonders what it’s like for her in this new body. If she’s gotten used to her own skin, or if she prefers to imagine she’s as she was.

When she’s done, down to nothing but the collar around her throat, she stands unmoving in the middle of the room. Her hands are held still at her sides, not even so much as twitching to cover herself. Jack finishes setting out his equipment and crosses over to her.

“Let me see,” he says, as though she isn’t. He makes a slow, deliberate circle around her. Stares at her ass, her chest, her cunt. The parts themselves matter very little to him: this is the Doctor, after all, and he’d feel the same no matter what they looked like. But she _is,_ objectively, very attractive, and he is more than appreciative.

She catches his eye as it works its way up her body and he gives her a wink. She scowls, but he can tell it’s covering a laugh.

“Alright,” he says, laughing himself. “I’ll get on with it.”

“Much obliged, Captain,” she says, and Jack goes to start setting up. 

Putting together a scene is a meditative exercise. The feel of the materials underneath his fingers, and the plans darting through his head, heighten his excitement for the _main event_. His anticipation is not excitement for control or to inflict pain. The second is incidental, and the first is never a factor. Rather, Jack focuses on his artistry. He’s been around a long time - he’s developed, over the decades and, now, centuries, an unparalleled sense of creativity. When the situation calls for it.

It doesn’t always. Usually, he’s just called to serve, and the details work themselves out from there. That’s what this is about, after all, he thinks, as he gathers an adjustable length of chain in his hands, savoring the feel of the cold metal against his hands.

He attaches the chain to the point, first, adjusting the length as he does so; it may need some tweaking once he’s brought the Doctor over, but he can eyeball it well enough for now. Then he gathers the restraints and returns to her.

He’s chosen a pair of black leather suspension cuffs with handle attachments, and the Doctor holds out her hands obligingly for him. He’s careful, remembering what she said about touching, as he wraps the leather around her. Her wrists are tiny, this time around, and the cuffs look huge and heavy on her, but they fasten snugly. She watches his hands the whole time, breath coming in short, shuddering gasps. Once he’s done, and she’s trembling, she looks up at him and his own breath stops.

Her eyes are wide, her pupils blown, and her soft mouth is parted; if this were another regeneration, he’d kiss her, but he rather thinks this one wouldn’t appreciate it much. There’s a light beading of sweat on her brow already.

“I trust you,” she says, softly, and Jack nearly falls to his knees. It stuns him, sometimes, how this ancient, wonderful creature trusts _him,_ of all people, to serve in this way. It’s an impossible gift, and one he’s desperate to be worthy of.

He gathers the carabiners at the ends of her chains and leads her over to the point. She’s half a foot shorter than him, now, and he takes a moment to marvel how easy it is to restrain her hands above her head. When they were of a height, Jack had been forced to rely on a pully system or stand on a stool.

As it happens, he’s judged exactly right: when he attaches the restraints to the center chain, the Doctor is forced to stand on her toes to grasp the handles. The restraints have a centimeter or two of slack; if she drops the handles, and hangs by the cuffs alone, her feet would fall flat. He takes another length of chain and attaches it from the center point to the ring at the back of her collar and adjusts it snugly, forcing her to keep hold on the handles if she doesn’t wish to choke herself on her own collar.

Jack gives her a moment to adjust, to find her footing, to relax into the position. 

“Comfortable?” he asks, and she glares at him.

“No,” she says, then adjusts her grip on the right handle. “But well enough.”

“Good,” Jack says, and returns to his vanity, taking a rolled mat in his hands and approaching the Doctor with it from behind. “Lift your feet.”

She grunts, putting all her weight on her arms as she does so, her toes coming off the carpet just enough that he can slip the mat underneath her.

“Down,” he orders, and she returns her feet to the floor with a sharp gasp.

The mat is made of coarse sandpaper; uncomfortable at first, eventually painful and irritating, and worse if she starts to struggle. Jack slips his coat off his shoulders, tosses it in the general direction of the vanity, and sits down on the bed.

Watches her.

“Alright,” he says. “When you’re ready.”

*

It doesn’t take long for the Doctor’s arms to begin to ache. 

Her shoulders start to go first, wrenched up awkwardly and forced to take most of her weight as she tries to take some of it off her feet. The rough grain of the mat digs into her toes and the balls of her feet, rubbing them raw. Though she knows it’s only making her situation worse, she can’t help shifting back and forth in an effort to get some kind of relief.

Next to go are her elbows. She tries not to lock them, at first, instead pushing up a little more on her toes and pulling herself up a bit higher, but it’s a losing battle: her muscles burn from trying to hold her weight and the mat digs brutally into her toes. Locking her elbows puts strain on her tendons, stretching them and making the joints twinge with pain. Still, it’s the lesser evil.

Even more so since her wrists and fingers quickly begin to go numb from clinging to the handles. She tries to adjust her grip, but the movement sends her body swinging and her feet dragging along the rough mat. She lets out a pained yelp at that, as she struggles to return to position. The collar isn’t choking her, yet, but she can feel the chain swinging behind her head. Threatening.

Promising.

“Please,” the Doctor gasps, as she finally manages to get her body to cooperate and returns to the position Jack had so cruelly placed her in. She feels like she’s been here for ages, naked and bound and struggling. Jack’s sitting on the bed, hardly moved, his hands folded in his lap and his gaze fixed on her body.

“Yes?” he asks.

“I get it,” she says. “I should’ve listened to your warning. Shouldn’t’ve let the Cyberman take the Cyberium.” She coughs, ducks her head. “I should’ve let Shelley die,” she mutters.

The Doctor hears Jack sigh. “You don’t believe that,” he says. “I don’t _want_ you to believe that. And it isn’t why we’re here.”

She lets out a long groan of frustration. She’d known it wouldn’t work - knows what Jack wants to hear (what he always wants to hear) - but she had to try anyway. 

(And, really, she doesn’t _want_ him to end her ordeal. Not yet. Not before - not _before_. There are rules, after all.)

“Seriously?” she says anyway, because she can’t help herself, and because her fingers are dangerously close to slipping. “You’ve made your point. My arms hurt. Let me down?”

“No,” Jack says. He crosses his arms over his chest.

She drops the handles and lands flat on her feet. The grains of the mat dig into her heels, though the callouses she has there give her toes some relief, and she leans back a little to take the weight off the abused skin. The chain attached to her collar pulls tight, and the leather digs into her neck, cutting off her air. 

For a moment, the Doctor hangs there - wrists caught by the cuffs, lungs struggling for breath - and glances up at Jack.

He hasn’t made so much as a _twitch_ in her direction, and his face is blank and cold. She knows it’s an affect - can hear his single heart beating quicker - but it _hurts_. Worse than her throat; worse than her arms; worse than her feet.

The Doctor is, suddenly, deeply aware of what a pathetic picture she must make.

Steeling herself, she pushes up on her toes, reaches for the handles, and sucks in a deep gulp of air once her aching fingers are wrapped around the hard leather once again. She focuses on breathing, for a bit, doing her best to block out the rest of the pain. Her pebbled skin feels sticky with sweat, uncomfortable where the moisture drips down the sides of her face and gathers underneath her breasts.

She focuses her eyes on Jack, staring him down as best she can. Jack doesn’t respond, but he does smile a little. Like he’s _proud._ The thought makes her shiver. 

For a long stretch of time, the only sound in the room is the occasional _clink_ of the chains, and their breathing, and the ever-present hum of the TARDIS. The Doctor’s arms continue to ache and burn, and her feet are rubbed raw, but she settles into the pain. Until it’s barely more than background noise. Her eyelids begin to droop, a little.

The Doctor floats.

Some time later - she doesn’t know how long - something in the room shifts. She drags her consciousness back to the surface, probing for the source of the change, and finds Jack: his heartrate is increased, and he’s anxious. Concerned. Hasn’t said a thing, but his eyes are wide.

She opens her mouth to ask why and tastes salt on her tongue.

 _Tears,_ she realizes.

Her own.

She’s crying.

Has been for awhile, she thinks; her face is wet and her eyes feel itchy and raw. And with that revelation, everything comes back to her in a rush: her fingers, her wrists, her elbows, her shoulders, her feet. Her failures. 

Her atonement.

Which was never one at all.

Contrition and apologies will not free her. There is only one thing that will, and with a choked sob, she surrenders. Her voice is raw and her throat burns when she speaks.

“Help me.”

*

Jack’s on his feet the second she says the word.

He’d been concerned for awhile there. In his experience, it’s much more common for the Doctor to spit and struggle the whole time, and only give up near the end. This time, she put up barely a cursory fight before going under. _Deep_ under, from what he could tell. Hadn’t even noticed she’d been crying, until - something pulled her out.

“Lift your feet,” he says, quietly, as he stands at her side. The Doctor lets out a quiet sob, and nods, and with great effort manages to raise her toes from the mat half a centimeter. Jack kicks the mat away, and she makes a small, relieved sound when she finally stands on the soft carpet again.

Next, he unhooks the Doctor’s collar and loosens the center chain. She winces as her arms come down, and Jack does the same in sympathy; relief after such a long period of strain is never an easy transition. The slack allows him to unclip the cuffs, and as she starts to collapse, he holds tight to the carabiners to ease her fall.

(He’d prefer to catch her in his arms - would have preferred to hold her, while he freed her - but she had said _doesn’t like to be touched_ and he will respect that.)

The Doctor curls up on her side on the floor, and Jack grabs his coat off the vanity and drapes it over her naked body before joining her. He sits cross-legged next to her head. Her blonde hair is a mess, half covering her face as she breathes into the carpet, and he just - waits. For his cue.

“Jack?” she says, at last.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“You can. I mean, I think I’d like it. If.” She struggles. Jack waits, patient. “You can touch me.”

Jack takes a deep breath. “Of course,” he says. “Anywhere in particular?”

Another long, agonizing pause. “Stroke my hair?” she asks, so vulnerable that Jack aches. And does so, running his fingers through the short strands. He lets his thumb brush over the silver chain of her ear cuff. She sighs contentedly and Jack -

He can tell himself, over and over, that he knows where he stands with the Doctor and he’d never, ever wish for anything more. And every time, it would be a lie. Mostly. Because _where he stands_ allows him this, and whatever he might want in his weaker moments, what he _has_ is a miracle.

“The Master’s back,” she murmurs into the carpet, and Jack freezes.

“What?”

“He destroyed Gallifrey.” Her voice is hollow. Broken. “I don’t know why. There’s so much - Jack, there are so many things I don’t understand. I feel like I’m losing myself. Like I don’t know who I am.”

Jack sighs and keeps moving his hand over her head. Soothing. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits. “I could say something reassuring, but I think we both know it’d be empty words. But I can help you. If you let me.”

She pushes up on her elbows and looks at him. His hand falls away from her hair. There’s an awful, pained look on her face, and Jack _knows_.

“You don’t want me to come with you.”

The Doctor sighs. “It’s not that,” she says, but he shakes his head.

“The other three. You’re going back for them.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “So -”

“Jack.” There’s a terrible darkness in her eyes. “They might have to stop me,” she says. “You’ve seen too much. Too much of the universe. Too much of _me._ And when it comes down to it, I can’t trust that you’ll stop me before -” Her voice catches.

“Before you go too far,” Jack finishes, resigned, and she nods. “I said when you need me, I’ll be there.”

“And you are,” she says, sitting up. She uses one hand to keep Jack’s coat wrapped around herself, and laces her fingers in Jack’s with the other. The cuffs are still around her wrists, the handles dangling awkwardly halfway down her forearms. “And you _will be_. When this is over - if I make it out the other side - I’m going to need you, Captain. You’ll have to find me, and remind me.”

Jack reaches out and thumbs the tag on her collar. “I will,” he promises. “As long as you have this, I’ll always find you.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to accuse him of sentiment, before her eyes widen. “You put a tracker on it, didn’t you?”

He grins cheekily. “Maybe,” he teases. 

(He definitely did. Not the best tech in the universe, but sufficient for its purpose. Always useful to have a Doctor-detector.)

The Doctor tries to look at him reproachfully, but only succeeds in looking exhausted. He can tell she’s starting to tremble, under the coat. And he really should look at her wrists and her feet.

“Let me clean you up?” he asks.

*

With some encouragement, the Doctor lets Jack help her onto the bed. She’s still not overly fond of being touched, but Jack is so familiar to her, and she’s so _tired,_ it’s almost a comfort.

He’s gentle when he removes the cuffs, cleaning each methodically before returning it to his vanity. He folds the hated mat with the same reverence, and coils the chains together. The Doctor watches with rapt fascination as he works.

Once he’s done, he gets a damp cloth from his bathroom and returns to her. She wriggles out of his coat at his insistence, though she rather hates doing so, and he runs the cloth carefully over her skin.

It feels - nice. Warm. Having the dried sweat cleaned off of her is more of a relief than she expected. And Jack is - considerate. As always. It had been - something of a concern, that he’d treat her differently because of how she looks, because humans have all these _notions._ Even now, she’s not sure if he _is_ treating her with more care, because of that. But, perhaps, that was something she needed that he’d picked up on.

He is, always, remarkably perceptive.

Jack wipes the soles of her feet with the cloth last, and then applies a healing salve the TARDIS keeps stocked in all her bathrooms. She is curious, if Jack is using the salve, did the mat draw blood? She’s not sure she wants to see, if so. Or he may be acting overly cautious. She picks at the thought for several minutes, as Jack returns the cloth and salve to the bathroom, and removes his braces and belt and shoes and button-down, and lies next to her in his trousers and undershirt. By that point, the question is moot - the salve has already started its work.

She lets the thought go.

“Rest,” Jack says. She wants to argue that she doesn’t have time for a nap - but she _does_ have time, truthfully, and anyway, she’s so -

*

*

“Well then,” Jack says, running his hand over the TARDIS door. The Doctor had slept for two and a half solid hours - more than she’s likely slept in days, if he were to hazard a guess - and he’d spent that time watching over her.

She’s back at her console now, rainbow shirt and lilac coat on her back and collar stashed safely in a compartment underneath the landing gear. 

“I guess this is goodbye,” he continues.

“For now,” the Doctor says. “But we’ll see each other soon.”

Jack doesn’t want to say that sure, she’ll see him, but he might never see this face again. He thinks she doesn’t need the reminder of what she’s heading into. Still. “Good luck,” he says.

And then she’s barreling into him, in a flutter of blue and purple and blonde, and wrapping her arms around his middle. It’s very obvious she’s had no practice in this, and almost as soon as she’s touched him, she’s stepping back awkwardly. “Sorry,” she says. “Thought I might -”

“When you need me, Doctor,” he promises. She nods.

The TARDIS door opens, and Jack takes a deep breath as he returns to the station. To - whatever awaits him next.

He doesn’t look back to watch the TARDIS disappear from view.


End file.
